


The Particulates of Motion

by exmachinarium



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Legasov's cat cameo, canon-typical angst, tired people contemplating life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19717153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: In which Legasov and Shcherbina contemplate the atom, each in their own way.





	The Particulates of Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Never expected to write a fic about Chernobyl of all things, yet here we are. Set somewhere between episodes 4 and 5.

Another midnight struck in Chernobyl, this time punctuated only by the far-off sounds of late night works.

The construction of the sarcophagus was progressing as planned, the biorobots were still going up to the roof to do their job, then down and out this place for good... if they were lucky. The work of scientists and politicians was practically over - and that, more than anything, made Shcherbina uneasy. It was, perhaps, the same cloying feeling overcoming men who, after a long service on the frontlines, were told to return home. Reason would dictate they'd be overjoyed to finally end the ordeal - but instead the mere thought of "home" made them sick to their stomachs.

It was the same for Shcherbina. For Legasov. For all the tens of thousands men who came here to work and get torn from the inside by invisible bullets. Here there was no need to explain Chernobyl. Even without knowing how exactly a nuclear reactor worked, without putting it into words, they knew - and that gave them all a weird sense of community.

Once outside, however...

Shcherbina honestly couldn't say what he looked forward to less: having to explain, over and over again, what exactly happened; or spending the rest of his life among people who never experienced the raw horror of this place.

It wasn't the first malfunction of a nuclear reactor in the Soviet Union (and wasn't it ironic that the man involved in the previous one wound up in here, of all places). It sure wouldn't be the last either. So why bother at all? To escape the hegemony of the miners, impress the common folk, parade it in front of the enemies?

"Why build these hellish things anyway?!" he startled both Legasov and himself with a sudden outburst.

"Come now, Borja," the nickname more than anything else signalled Legasov was already deep into the drink.

"I'm right Valera. You know I am," Shcherbina replied, opening a fresh bottle to drown the vision of himself as a petulant schoolboy being scolded for acting up in class.

"Just because we witnessed the atom at its worst doesn't mean we should never try to use its potential." Legasov accepted the refill, took a sip and sat back, nursing the drink in his lap. "What we need now, more than ever, is a deep sense of respect... Reverence for the power we have access to. Reverence and understanding."

And there he was - Valery Legasov, the academic. From the moment they met face to face, it didn't take long for Shcherbina to understand that the only times when Legasov rose above his usual skittish, awkward self is when he talked science. Even back in the helicopter, held at metaphorical gunpoint, his nervousness dissipated the longer he explained the inner workings of the beast they were heading to conquer. He was a man truly committed to his field of expertise - a man who would feel the safest locked forever within the university walls and away from the world that didn't move in ways that could be measured and quantified.

(Apparently the running joke at the Kurchatov Institute was that Legasov cheats on his wife with Vanya and on them both with the Institute library. Vanya, as Shcherbina found out some time later, was the name of Legasov's beloved cat.)

"If we begin to move away from the larger things - the universe, the Solar system - and progressively narrow our scope towards the minute and unseen - through living creatures, plants, bacteria, et caetera - we discover that all we see is simply a result of bindings between atoms. Atom... its movements... create the reality as we know and perceive."

Valery spoke of science like another man would speak of a lover: with tenderness and awe, intricate metaphors spilling from his lips. The knowledge of things made him talk louder, stand taller, and Shcherbina would never get tired of witnessing this transformation.

"Movement," he continued, swirling the alcohol in front of his own face as if demonstrating something in a laboratory, "the transformation of living matter into fuel, the evaporation of alcohol, the intricate chemistry between our... human bodies. An organised movement of particles across time and space, creating beauty and destruction."

He got up and leaned on the windowsill, pointedly turning his back on the darkness.

"In a way," he said after a long silence, face devoid of expression, "the inevitable deterioration of an irradiated body is also a morbidly beautiful form of movement. A final, tragic dance."

Shcherbina shuddered, immediately recalling the grotesque illustrations he once was privy to witness; skeltons dancing in a circle, dragging mortals from various walks of life to join in the horrifying display.

"Totentanz, the Germans call it," he grunted, downing his drink and immediately pouring himself another.

"Never took you for a connoisseur of art."

"Travel in delegations enough and you will need to find yourself a hobby to not die of boredom," Shcherbina said with a shrug, ignoring Valery's usual bluntness. Any speck of the unchanging in this mad world was worth grasping.

Legasov turned and seemed to contemplate the view behind the window but it was clear he saw none of what was outside. His hand continued the slow circular motion, swirling the rest of his vodka in the glass. Round and round it went, with a barely audible slush.

"It's funny, really. How many things in life can be compared with dancing. Death. Life. We dance around the subjects we want to avoid and matters we aren't honest about. Human interactions, politics... It's all about taking the right steps at the right time. Organised movemeant," he put the unfinished drink on the windowsill.

"Which explains a lot, come to think of it," he straightened up, putting hands in both pockets and looking Boris in the eye, smirking. "I've always been told I have two left feet."

Boris let out a bark of laughter and drank his last for the night.

The conference in Vienna was looming on the horizon. Maybe, just maybe he'd manage to take Valery out dancing, if only to observe how he fumbles through the awkward situation, stepping on much too many toes. Or maybe by now he'd actually be smart enough to let Boris take the lead.

Time would tell.


End file.
